


Rights of Man

by unamaga



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unamaga/pseuds/unamaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn’t wear a coat to his Inauguration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rights of Man

**Author's Note:**

> Don't let the title fool you: this fic is, like most of the stuff I write, completely and shamelessly self-indulgent. Thanks to schneestern, who featured in the original conversation that sparked this off, and to chopchica for an amazing, thorough beta. This story wouldn't be half as coherent if not for her. ♥

**_1._ **

The crowd is the biggest they’ve ever seen, and despite the fact that there hasn’t been official merchandise released yet, almost every single person out there has a button or a shirt or a sign with his name on it.

“How did this happen,” John Sheppard whispers, wide eyed.

Lorne grins, ducking his head, and nudges John in the back with his elbow until John stumbles forward towards the podium to the triumphant trilling of a few nearby trumpets. The audience erupts into riotous applause, and John gives them a three-fingered, sloppy salute as he steps up and adjusts the microphone, his suit jacket. 

“Hey, there, Iowa,” he says, all cheeky, boyish charm. “How’ve you been?”

 

**_2._ **

No one knows how he does it. To be honest, he doesn’t have a clue either.

Once the primaries are past and he’s pulled Teyla Emmagen on board as his second, the rest just…happens. The smear campaigns against him seem to roll off the public’s back like water; Lorne tells jokes about John’s pretty mouth and mud wrestling to anyone who’ll listen, but John thinks his pretty mouth probably has less to do with it than the fact that his opponent is nearly thirty years older than him and as foreboding as Dick Cheney. A grumpy skeleton and his plain Vice President don’t look very compelling when put next to two lively, attractive people – a fact which gives Lorne an easy spin to sell on the campaign trail.

Still, the margin is slim when the results come in – just over two million popular votes: enough to gain him a small lead with the Electoral College; enough that he spends a week constantly falling over chairs and walking into walls out of sheer baffled delight.

 

**_3._ **

Rodney McKay is a late hire, recommended with what is obviously _very_ grudging respect by someone Lorne knows. When John looks up McKay’s resume, he can understand why. The man’s been involved in almost every big Democratic campaign for the past twenty years – governors, senators, representatives.

They hit it off instantly, though later Teyla admits at the time it looked less like ‘hitting it off’ and more like ‘violently reciprocated verbal abuse’. 

 

**_4._ **

John doesn’t wear a coat to his Inauguration, stands out in the wind and drizzle in his blazer while he says, “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.” For his troubles, he suffers through a slew of William Henry Harrison jokes during the first two weeks of his presidency.

McKay says, “What the hell were you thinking, Sheppard?” and John sheepishly answers, “I forgot it on the way out. Relax, McKay.” 

This is a good indication of the years to come.

He doesn’t contract some deadly strain of pneumonia and kick the bucket, thankfully, but he does catch a nasty cold that has him sniffling and hacking his way through meetings while all the others cringe away and carry bottles of Lysol. The lingering scent of lemon and pine nauseates McKay so much he takes to wearing a face mask. 

“Are you done snotting everywhere yet, Mr. President?” McKay asks grouchily, nose wrinkling up. 

John thinks the mask makes McKay look like a deranged mental patient, but knows well enough to know discretion, in this case, is the better part of valor. He says, miserably, around his tissue, “Doh, I’b dot. Prob – prob – _choo_ – probleb?”

“God, that is just really. So disgusting,” McKay says.

After a few good honks that have McKay cringing, John can speak properly again, though he slurs slightly. “Did you want something, Rodney, or are you just here to share your joy and love with the world?”

“Who said anything about love and joy?” McKay snaps quickly, chin tipping up, cheeks flushing with annoyance. “I just want you to sign this so I can do my job.”

“Ah, yes, the famous job,” John says. “Famous Rodney McKay and his famous business ethic.”

McKay blanches. “Did someone let you watch _Help!_ again?”

 

**_5._ **

The conservative press runs stories about how the Sheppard Administration is Godless. Teyla’s race and gender are hot button issues, as well as every single thing John does, apparently – from the way he smiles at the visiting dignitary to the suit he wears while doing it. The fact that he’s not married comes up time and again, one more condemning mark added to his already blemished record. 

The internet doesn’t mind, though, that’s for sure. Websites pop up left and right with disturbingly graphic things to say about how much they enjoy John’s golf shirt and the way he swings his clubs, wink nudge wink. One site – McKay and Ronon take great, evil delight in showing it to him whenever they think he’s getting too lazy – has a picture of his smiling face photoshopped very, very badly onto a nude male model’s body. Underneath, the ‘artist’ has written, “He can tend my flock _anytime_.”

“I love the American people,” McKay sighs dreamily the first time, taking a photo of John’s slack-jawed expression to put on his desk.

 

**_6._ **

McKay usually yells at him when he hides from the press ("- because that makes you look like a _serial killer_ , Sheppard. You have no idea how ridiculous you are when you think you're being inconspicuous!"), but Kavanagh is worse than a dog with a bone, and no matter how many important meetings John claims to have, Kavanagh never, ever leaves him alone. 

That’s how he finds himself face-to-face with twenty-seven wide-eyed third graders – defenseless.

"Hi, kids," he says after a moment of incredible awkwardness. "Having a good time?" 

A few of them murmur to each other, and then suddenly a little girl in Mary Janes and white stockings is shoved forward. She squeaks, but comes up to John anyway, tentatively grasping the sleeve of his suit jacket and tugging until he bends down to hear her. 

"Are you the president, mister?" she asks.

John gives her a smile and pats her head before he straightens up again. Ronon is going to have his hide.

"That I am. You can call me John, though," he says cheerfully.

The class chaperone looks shell-shocked, but doesn’t say anything when he takes over, holding onto the little girl's hand.

John has no idea what the actual official tour is supposed to cover, but he figures he can make it up as he goes along – he lives here, after all; he should know something about the place. On the way to where he imagines the library is probably located, he learns the little girl’s name is Lee, she’s almost ten years old and she has polka dotted pants at home that her mom won’t let her wear and a cat called Binky. He makes the appropriate commiserating sounds and, in turn, tells her about the neon orange tie his staff has threatened to destroy numerous times, his dog Dylan, and the ucky green stuff he once found at the back of his fridge.

Lee is obviously enamored of him, which pleases John immensely. 

The rest of the kids trail along behind the two of them complacently enough, although John’s keeping an eye on the kid in the light-up shoes at the far right who looks like he’s plotting something. Actually, the look on his face reminds John of – 

“There you are!” McKay exclaims, pointing at John furiously. “Where’s Ronon? No, I don’t care; when I’m through with you, there won’t be anything left for him to boss around. You’re supposed to be in a meeting right now with Governor Perry, but you’re off _gallivanting_! Your schedule…is…”

McKay stops, staring at the open-mouthed students clustered around John’s legs. 

“Did you _spawn_?” he yelps.

 

**_7._ **

The rumors don’t start until their first Thanksgiving in office. John’s a little incredulous about the entire thing (“I have to pardon a turkey,” he says flatly to himself in the mirror, and hears Ronon snort behind him, “At least you didn’t have to write the speech.”), but it’s a tradition, and far be it for him to mess with something like that. He’s slumping sideways after the ceremony is over to hiss something insulting at McKay for making him do this, when the camera flash goes off. 

That Monday, the first edition of the Washington Post has the photo of him and McKay leaning towards each other in a very suggestive way printed on A18. 

“Crap,” John says.

It’s a small article that doesn’t say anything of substance and barely takes up an eighth of the briefs page, but the title is, “Sheppard’s Skeletons” and it’s enough of a threat that they cluster together in the Oval Office, talking damage control. 

“Ludicrous! We’re not even – I don’t – he’s attractive, fine, but he’s not _that_ attractive!” McKay splutters. 

“Oh, really,” John says. 

McKay crosses his arms defensively, looking caught out and guilty as hell. “So I’ve maybe noticed; I’d have to be blind not to.”

John’s eyebrow quirks up. “That’s not what I –”

“Not helping,” Elizabeth interrupts firmly. “Whether or not you two are…well. It doesn’t matter. I can’t hold off the press forever, and if this breaks in a big way, we’re done for next election. Your hold in the Midwest was tenuous at best last time, and there’s no way to win without it.”

The room is quiet for a moment while they all digest this, then John sits forward on the couch with his hands clasped between his knees and his lips pressed together implacably, more serious now than he’s been since this whole crazy mess started.

“We have Congress in our pocket,” he says. 

Ronon makes a noise in the back of his throat, but it’s Teyla who steps forward and puts a hand on John’s shoulder. “John, you can’t be suggesting that we –”

“The public is radical right now because of the last administration,” John continues, unabated, “the fact that we’re even here is proof of that – and we have Congress in our _pocket_. Why not use that to change something? Best case scenario: this goes over well and we’re reelected next term. Worst case: we’re not. Did any of you really expect me to make it this far in the beginning? I know I didn’t.”

“The consequences to your – your career; if this went wrong, you would never be able to work in politics again,” Elizabeth says carefully.

“You’re free to resign,” John offers, not unkindly, looking at each of them in turn. “I don’t want to ruin your careers too. But, me: where can you really go after President of the United States?” He gives them a wry grin. “Maybe I’ll write a book. People would eat it up.”

 

**_8._ **

A loud, strident series of knocks wakes him at – John checks his clock – five in the morning. He shuffles over in his slippers to open it warily, rubbing his eyes with balled fists to regain his sight. 

“Did the Washington Monument blow up?” he asks when he sees McKay there.

“What? No,” McKay says distractedly, shoving past John and into the room. He looks agitated and nervous: his hair is sticking up in uncharacteristic tufts like he’s been tugging at it, his mouth slanted with temper, and his face is so plainly open it’s hard for John to think of him as anything but _Rodney_. 

“I knew you would,” Rodney says out of nowhere. This is obviously something he’s been stewing over for hours, if not days; John moves closer, drawn in by curiosity, and Rodney looks straight at him. “I _knew_ you would make it this far.” 

And suddenly the rumors seem a little more plausible, because John has Rodney backed up against the bed post and they’re kissing like they’re starving, all speed and tongue and helpless, dirty sounds that carry. John threads his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of Rodney’s neck, pushes closer to feel Rodney’s heat all along his front, and it’s good – so good John has no idea how they’ve gone this long without.

Rodney breaks the kiss with a soft, addictive little gasp and says, “John.” 

And, Jesus, that’s even better. 

They stumble sideways – drunken, swaying steps – and hit the nightstand with their hips. Something clatters to the floor, and John’s head clears enough that he realizes maybe this whole making out with his Chief of Staff thing isn’t such a good idea; but Rodney’s hands are sliding up underneath his t-shirt, warm and big, cupping his shoulder blades to pull him down on the bed, and John wouldn’t stop now even if he could.

 

**_9._ **

“You think by – oh _yes_ – by now we’d know better,” Rodney moans, sloppily mouthing the curve of John’s neck. “Have more control at least.”

“Mmm,” John says, and concentrates on curling his fingers around the slippery head of Rodney’s cock. The desk’s edge is digging into the backs of his thighs and Rodney’s teeth keep grazing the lobe of his ear; he’s halfway to demanding Rodney fuck him right here over the dozens of important, official papers he’s supposed to be signing, his fingers already inching towards the intercom button –

Elizabeth bursts in without knocking, holding a piece of crinkled, limp paper in her hands, Ronon hot on her heels. 

“John, you have to – oh, oh my god,” she says.

“Uh,” John mumbles, pulling his hand out of Rodney’s pants quickly and wiping it on the edge of his desk as inconspicuously as he can, considering that, well, that hand was just down Rodney’s pants. “This isn’t what it –”

“Shut up, Mr. President,” Elizabeth orders, breaking out into a huge, beaming smile. She holds out the slip of paper. “We have the majority.”

 

**_10._ **


End file.
